Little by Little
by Jayfairchild
Summary: /NejiTen Oneshot Collection/    8 - Worries: She glances back at him, winking and smiling without a worry in the world, and he can't help but think they might just make it.
1. War

She smiles at him, with a smile that's just for him, and lays her hand on the crook of his arm, fingers fisting in the loose fabric. Her hand trembles ever so slightly. They are scared, (both of them) but their faces can't quite manage any expression that's not brave, that is not keen, or steady, or, perhaps, full of rage, though it's been a long time...

Sometimes he wonders what it will take to set him off again, he wonders that he could really change from that spiteful boy full of hate, hate, hate, and he wonders if somewhere, deep down, hell has its fingers wrapped tightly around his heart, and if it will only take some small, silly provocation for his anger to win. Over the years it has lessened and weakened, but he can still taste it on his tongue, sometimes, bitter and metallic, when he sees his reflection, and the hate of generations burned into his skin.

But when she lays her lips against his scar, he fells it fade. She is so bright that evil thoughts dry up and scatter in the wind. So he does not let the fear control him, (the fear of death and pain and loss, and all the other spoils of war) but looks into her eyes, unending pools of darkened earth, and breaths deeply.

She says his name, in the voice that's just for him, and he wants to tell her that she should be afraid, she should be cowering and crying, but that he knows she won't. She, they, are long past fear. They have lived to much to die young, and... only the good die young. Perhaps he _should_ say tell her that one, she would laugh, her high, strong laugh, and her cheeks would stain red, and she would look at him through lowered lashes, and ask him if he thought she were such a bad girl, and a hand would find itself on his knee and slowly work its way upwards...

But he has never been one for eloquence, so he gives her a look that makes her eyes crinkle, the one where he has so many words, and nothing to say.

Yes they are still afraid. They are afraid of being off with other people who they hardly know, fighting for their lives in some unknown place. They are afraid they will die alone, with no hand to grip their own, and no salty tears to paint their skin. But surely they will see each other again. Surely it cannot end this way.

And that is the only insurance they can get.

He wraps his fingers around her shoulder, and squeezes gently. And she thinks of the next time they meet (how he will say something witty, in his sarcastic monotone, and she will laugh and blush, and retort, with everything but seriousness in her tone, and a hand will mysteriously appear on his knee, and slowly works it's way higher and higher...).

And god, god, god please let it be so. _Please let it be so._

So they part, brave faced, and terrified, with hope and little else.

.

.

.

...But sometimes hope is enough.


	2. Touch

He's afraid to touch her. The urge never fades (the itching in his palms, the burning of his fingers), but something always stops him. They have touched so many times, scratches and hits, blood and bruises, and he thinks maybe he won't be able to lay his fingers on her skin without hurting her. Without their bodies automatically reacting with some brutal instict. Without battle.

It is easy to separate her from her trade, she lays down her weapons and then, like magic, she is unadulterated by the all the woe. They have both seen their share of it, but she is eerily unaffected. It looks almost inhuman, with her smiling down on anything that doesn't suit her tastes, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. He has never seen her flustered; her fear never makes it past her fingertips.

They say he is the one with self control, the one who can handle every situation, but they have never seen the look in her eyes. The holding back. _She_ is the one who does everything with rigidity and composure and a goddamn _smile_, and whose every forbearance has such a natural air that it goes unnoticed.

Yes, she is able to distance herself from it. She can cling to normalcy, trowing down her tools and wiping off the sweat (and blood). But his weapons _are_ his hands (the ones that would kill to run through her hair and rest on her hips, and that would kill if ordered to, or if anyone got in his way, or if...) If he could grow a new self, one that was weak and untrained, just so he could feel the heat of her skin, he would, oh he would do it in a heart beat. But he cannot make _himself _spineless and limp, it would go against every fiber of his being to be indisposed, even for her.

So when she smiles at him, with eyes that have changed into something new, something that makes him clench his jaw and close his eyes, and lock his knees, he does not return it. Instead he sighs and turns away.

And she laughs.

She jogs up to him, tinkling like some beautiful, wonderful bell, and looks into his eyes, and picks up his hands and firmly presses them to her sides. She is just a girl. One that can smile like it's nothing to be touching a weapon more deadly than any she has ever held (a weapon that can think, and plan and feel.) A girl that has killed, and lived, and one that snickers and snorts, and rolls her eyes when he is being ideological and stubborn and mulish and a thousand other things. (And one that is doing so at this moment.) She is a girl that does not fear him.

She loops her arms around his neck, lays her cheek against his chest and listens to the steadying hastening thur-ump of his heart beat. And... it has never been so peaceful.


	3. Genius

Oh god, oh god.

There is blood on his hands, a deep red blood that spans from his fingertips to his wrists. And he is trying to unwrap the bandages he wears around his arm with one shaking hand as the pushes hard against the wound with the other, willing the blood to stop, stop, stop.

Oh god.

And he's leaving little red fingerprints on the sweaty, frayed fabric, but it won't matter because soon it will be drenched in blood.

Her blood.

She lays, curled in on herself, gasping for breath. The wound- which rises from the curve of her spine and wraps around to her navel- is weeping. Like her. She just can't hold it in. It hurts like hell. Like nothing she has ever felt before. She has been injured countless times, but it has never been so _deep_.

The noises she is making are driving him mad, they sound animal, terrified, but worse are the tears. He has never seen her cry. She does not cry. And every thought that goes through his head (she is going to be alright, alright, she is going to be fine) is drowned out by her cries and moans and grunts and _screams_.

He has never heard anything like it, it cuts through him and makes him scared like nothing ever has before.

"_Neji, Neji help me please. I'm dying. I don't want to die. Please don't let me die. Please, please just make it stop. Please._"

And then she screams again as he adds more pressure to her wound.

He puts a hand against her mouth, trying to muffle the sounds that send shock waves through his body, and feels the too-fast puffing of her breath against his skin, wet, and louder than the thudding pulse in his ears.

Her fingernails are turning steadily lighter, the beds are an ugly purple fading slowly into a lifeless white. Her lips are pale, and worried into a bloody mess by her chattering teeth (and oh, she is so cold.) He remembers, less than a year ago, when she tried to kiss him with those lips. A friendly kiss with something more sprinkled into her eyes (that made him, the fourteen year old boy that he was, swallow hard), and he turned his head and she touched his cheek ever so gently, and he thought he might lose his mind at how soft her lips were. But now they are rough and cold against his palm.

And she is saying his name, over and over, lips sliding against his fingers, and her voice his getting fainter, and oh god he is so scared that he ruined it, and now she'll die and he'll never stroke her skin, or touch her flushed cheeks to see if they are as warm as they look, or count the freckles that paint her cheeks. Or kiss her.

And he is so god damn scared, and she is frightened half to death, but he leans in and presses his lips to hers for a single heart beat, then pulls away and put his hand on either side of her face, stopping her trashing and moaning, and tells her that she is going to be fine. That Gai and Lee must be on their way back already, a medic thrown over their shoulders, going faster than they have ever gone before, and soon there will be no more pain and no more blood, and she will smile and blush, and thank him in her soft, embarrassed tone. Everything will turn out alright.

And despite the pain, the absolutely maddening, indescribable pain, she looks into his eyes, sees his determination, and believes every word he says.

He is a genius after all.


	4. Training

She eased into the water breathing in the thick steam and closing her eyes. Ah. She could feel the sweat being washed away, the throbbing in her side ease, and... a vaguely familiar presence appear on her left.

"Good evening, Tenten-san."

Oh, Sakura.

"Hello there," she said with a smile, opening one eye just wide enough to peer at her friend through the haze. Sakura sank into the water nearby letting out a sigh, and smiling wearily. "Tough day?"

"Ha, you don't know the half of it. You had the right idea, Tenten-san, avoid specializing in a career that requires you to interact with stuck-up, perverted old men. Naked old men."

They laughed.

"It could be worse," she replied. "You could be working with old men in spandex."

They laughed again, their giggles mixing with the fog, and the silence that ensued was comfortable. Until: "God, Tenten-san, who gave you_ that_?"

She opened her eyes again, looking down at the spot Sakura's gaze was drawn to and rolled her eyes.

"Neji. That smug bastard, you should have seen him smirking afterward," The bruise still stung, along with the knowledge that he'd made it through her defense _again_. She didn't have his level of guard, but still, she was a long range fighter, she should have been able to dodge. The mark was just above her heart, and had he wished it, she would be dead. "That's not the worse one either, look at this monster,"

She stood, turning so Sakura could see the yellowing bruise on her side, just above her hip bone. "Now this one, this was was just cruel," He'd hit her there with enough chakra to numb her to the tips of her toes, and let out a small chuckle as she tripped, fell flat on her butt, and continued to glare at him from the ground.

"I had no idea that he was so rough..."

She furrowed her brows. "What? You've seen him fight before. Whoever called it the gentle fist was an ironic son-of-a-bitch."

Sakura's eyes widened. "That doesn't have anything to do with what happens off the battle grounds. I can't believe you put up with it."

"Why?" She said, titling her head to the side and grinning., "It's mutually beneficial, I help him with his Byakugan and-"

"What!"

"...What?"

"He uses his Byakugan!"

Tenten paused for a moment, giving her an incredulous look, then, snickering, added: "Of course, how else would he get any better? It's tough working with kekkei genkai, but it has it's rewards. I'm sure you already know that though. I mean before Sasuke left-"

"We never! Never. Oh God." A deep blush spread across her cheeks.

"Oh. Ok." and awkward silence ensued. 'No wonder she was so weak back then. Before she trained with Tsunade she didn't get a chance to train with anyone.'

The stiff silence that followed was anything but relaxing, so she stood, and nodded an uneasy goodbye towards Sakura before turning to leave.

"Wait... Tenten-san."

"Yes?"

The blush spread from Sakura's cheeks to the tips of her ears, deepening to a harsh red.

"Um, just make sure you, you-know use, um, protection."

Tenten turned, confusion evident on her face. "Protection?"

Sakura swallowed. "Yes, I know you are responsible and probably don't need to be told, but so many Kunoichi's careers end with pregnancy. It's so sad."

She paused. "Um, what the hell are you talking about? What in the world do you think we _do_ while we're training."

A long pause.

"Training? ...but the, uh, hickeys..."

Tenten's eyes opened wide, she coughed once, twice, and then, with her resolve thoroughly depleted broke out into raucous laughter. It lasted for more than a minute, with Sakura looking more and more uncomfortable with each passing moment.

"Oh God, a hickey, that's a good one," she gasped, holding her sides. "A hickey!" She laughed again. "A hickey!"

Finally she composed herself biting her lip (hard) to control the giggle that were threatening to spill out. "Silly Sakura-chan, I would think you of all people would know the difference between a hickey and a _bruise." _

Sakura grunted, looking affronted. "Well, it's not like I've made a study the different types of skin blemishes. They _are_ very similar."

Tenten laughed again. "Here, I'll give you a lesson." Sakura rolled her eyes. "This is a bruise," she pointed to her chest, then lifting her leg and exposing her inner thigh, gestured downward "and _this_ is a hickey."

"_Last Friday night..._

_Is this a hickey or a bruise?_

_Damn."_


	5. Accident

They were in her car, a silver Taurus with squeaky brakes and more than a few dents. She was singing along with the song on the radio, a techno-pop monstrosity that made him cringe, purposely shrieking, and being generally obnoxious, in an attempted to make him smile. It was working (almost.) And she wasn't quite sure why he was so upset, she had outscored him on the calculus test (again), but, as he had told her multiple times before, 'he was never going to need to find the area of a sine function at _any_ time in his life, anyways.' (Besides, it was hard to out do her ninety-nine percent average in the class, she thought, with only a little smugness, his 93% was still respectful by all means.)

Not to mention it was Friday. They had one their meet by a landslide, and didn't have practice for two more days. Practically paradise.

So when she got to the chorus and started to swerve the car, ever so slightly, in time to the bouncing beat, she could see him breaking down. He tried to hide his smile by scolding her about driving carefully, and general safety, but they were on a quiet rural road at 11:30 pm, and she hardly considered the slight wavering of their path dangerous. So she just sang louder, ignoring his teasing words, and bellowed out the final lyrics as the song faded away. She looked over to see his countenance fail, a few chuckles falling past his straining lips, just as a blinding light flooded her vision, and a screeching filled her ears.

The headlights flickered out.

She blinks, eyes opening slowly, greeted by darkness. And silence. There is a pain in her head, and when she lifts her fingers to touch the pounding in her scalp, her hand comes back sticky and covered in crusty blood. Her heart is beating fast against her chest, and her breath is coming in and out at a quick, none-to-steady rhythm. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows this is bad, but all that she can think is that she is oddly tired, bone-numbingly so. And she closes her eyes (just for a second) and is half way to sleep when she hears him.

He groans.

Her eyes are open in a second, and she feels around, touching her surroundings with quaking hands. They are in her car. They are in her car, which is on its side, and there is blood in her hair, and Neji is moaning.

She reaches down with fingers that quiver and quake, and carefully undoes the seat belt that is holding her steady. She falls down jerkily, slamming into the armrest between the driver and passenger seats. A pain in her ribs immediately becomes apparent, and she lets out a grunt that sounds startlingly loud in the silence. Carefully, she reaches into the center compartment and pulls out a small metal flashlight, and it is not until she feels how warm the cool metal feels against her skin that she realizes her fingers are frozen. She clicks on the light, stiffly and clumsily, and shines it down, muscles twitching as little spurts of adrenaline shoot through her veins.

Oh _please_ be alright.

She sees his face first, sweaty and pale, but with nothing more than a small cut across his cheek to distinguish injury. And she tries to smile at him, lips quivering, eyes suddenly wet with relief, but _his_ eyes are rolled back into his head, and his jaw his clenched tightly, and she knows she cannot reach him. It is not until she leans down to undo his seat belt that she sees it. A twisted hunk of brightly painted metal, the length of her forearm sticking deep into his chest.

And she screams.

It took a life time for her to find her cell-phone (wedged between the steering wheel and the deflated air bag) and even longer for her dial 9-1-1 with trembling fingers. And her voice is shaking so much as she talks to the all too calm attendant that she's afraid of being misheard, but the woman understands, and soon hangs ups with instructions not to move her friend, but she wants out of that car _now_, and her door is crushed past opening.

(But then again she can't _leave_ him anyway.)

Suddenly the fatigue catches up to her and with a airy sigh she leans over and places her head on the armrest, close enough to brush his arm, closes her eyes and wishes it all away.

She is sitting by his bedside, staring anywhere but his too pale face. His family isn't there but that's fine, she dreads there coming. The other driver way past drunk enough to die, and it was he who swerved all the way over to them, through the center line _and_ the passing lane, but shouldn't she have noticed; shouldn't she have seen it coming?

She kind of, sort of wants to cry, but is concentrating too hard on the smell of blood to acknowledge the whim, so she just keeps sitting, staring blankly at the wall and trying to find a facial expression that doesn't pull at the stitches in the crown of her head.

Laying in the hospital bed as they patched her up earlier, eyes closed and mouth pursed, she had tried to forget. The flashing lights, the whirling siren. Concerned faces and questions, questions, questions. Instead she concentrated on the look on his face as the paramedics tried to move him, and how his eyes had flashed open, and, in between the screams, had met hers, for just a moment. Just one heart beat, one labored breath. And... she wasn't quite sure what she saw. Anger? Fear?

Now her eyes flicker downward, and she stares at her hands, clasped firmly in her lap, at the oblong bruise darkening just above her wrist, and listens to the sardonic keening of the heart rate monitor, wishing and wishing that he'd just wake up.

It's been hours. Hours since the crash, hours since the blurry, jostling ambulance ride. Not quite so long since he came out of surgery, eyes taped shut, skin tainted orange with iodine. It seems like a long time though; she glances up at the clock, 5 am, 37 minutes then. The nurse anesthetist had said 30 minutes to wake, and 45 to become coherent, but there he is lids shut, and completely inert.

And suddenly a thousand questions blaze through her mind. What if there is brain damage? What if he's paralyzed, or comatose. The doctor would have told her, right? Or would they have waited for his uncle? What if...

She reaches out and grips his hand tightly in hers, scared beyond belief. And somehow, his fingers squeeze back, a cold faint tug, and his eyes flicker open, and he looks around, finds her, opens his mouth, and lets a breathy sigh escape through his chapped lips.

"Tenten, you're alright."

And now she really wants to cry, and it takes a crumpled, silly looking face and a wavering countenance to hold back the sobs rumbling in her throat.

But instead, she lays her head down, cushioned against his arm, just above the IV tube, and breaths _deeply_.

"Yeah, I'm fine."


	6. Run

His breathing is slow. In. Crackle. Out. Rasp. She places her hand on his chest, feels the beating of his heart (erratic) and the heat of his skin (hot.) Her breathing is fast. _Inoutinoutinout. _Her heart beats more steadily (but faster.) She is cold. Shivering.

Tears gather in the eyes of her soul. (Always so much more sensitive than her mind.) Lost. That is how she feels. Without direction, without hope. She doesn't know, and the lack of knowledge hurts almost as much as his slow, cruel death.

There is no time to hope. Just to run. Right foot, left foot. Heel, toe. He his heavy, an anchor pulling her towards the swirling depths of the sea. Waves brush against her cheeks. Salt stings her nose. It is the same feeling. Running in water. Running with him, held to her bent back with her weary arms. Rain reaches, wraps raindrops 'round runners. _A_runner. _A_lone.

She pants. She stumbles. She stands. Goes again, determined (and scared.) How much farther? How much longer? _Whowhatwherewhenwhy. _How.

She believes in god for the first (and only) time when she sees them. Flying. Green blurs. One lifts the weight of the world from her shoulders. The other lifts her.

She wakes in white. Heavy. Drowsy. He lies across the hall. A thousand shuffling steps away. She moves there. Stares into his eyes. White (more of it.)

(It is his first smile for her. First set of crinkling eyes. First pair of almost there dimples. The first time she saves him.)

Her hand hovers over his arm for a moment, then touches. Feels: Skin. Warmth. Good.

(It is the first time she looks at him with something more. More than starry-eyed admiration.)

Their eyes meet._ Genuinely._


	7. Strong

First:

He stands in a dark hallway, hands deep in his pockets, trying to look inconspicuous. His head jerks up as he hears the clicking of heels, quick, frantic, rounding the corner. Then he sees her. She looks bad. Her left eye is slightly swollen, burst blood vessels tainting the white of her eye pink. Her hair is in disarray, the complete opposite of the sleek, shining waterfall it was, hours ago. Her clothes (clothes he is not used to seeing her in, despite all the months of training) that clung to her like a second skin, glittering in the artificial lights, are now rumpled and ripped in a few places, lending a full view of the four angry scratch marks the run from around her throat to her decolletage.

"I got the bastard, in the end," she tells him, quickening her pace, longing for his reassuring presence. "Now let's get out of here before it's too late."

He examines her, wondering how she does it. Only the subdued quivering of her lips gives her away, shows her weakness. He places a hand on her shoulder, and looks into her eyes. "Are you all right?"

She smiles, a little shakily, placing her hand over his and squeezing, meeting his eyes. "I'm fine. It wasn't so bad. Not like they said," She trails off, glancing around nervously. "Come on, we better hurry."

So they turn and walk away, keeping to the shadows and never looking back.

Inner:

'Shit,' she thinks. 'Shit, shit, shit.' He is leering at her from his spot on the bed, waggling his eyebrows and beckoning with one finger in a way that would have been humorous were she not so scared. She gives what she hopes is a confident smile, sauntering towards him, swaying her hips just as she practiced, so many, many times. 'It is all muscle memory now,' she tells herself, trying not to flinch as he takes in her form. He really isn't an unattractive man, really not an evil man, but he is her enemy, and this is her job. She will prove her worth, she will be important. Down the hall, just out of hearing distance, her partner waits, depending on her to finish this task. He has done his part, getting her this close, and if she backs out now all his hard work will go to waste. 'I have no reason to be nervous,' she chants, 'I have practiced enough, I am ready,' but it is her first time, and it is not an easy job to complete.

The cool metal of the knife, tucked carefully in her boot, reassures her. 'I am ready.'

Outer:

The man watches the girl, the pretty girl, walk towards him. She is a skinny thing, with just a hint of muscle showing through, giving something away (although he's not sure what). She has a hungry look in her eyes, a desperation, and he knows that she is willing to do what he says. He is a wealthy man. He takes care of his whores, and she such a pretty, pretty whore. "Come here," he says, and he places his hands on her hips, she is shaking, ever so slightly, a stark contrast to the confidence in her eyes. "Don't be sacred now, I'll be nice." She is so young, so fragile looking, 'a dancer,' he thinks, gazing at her well toned limbs with sudden understanding. "Dance for me," he says, to her astonishment. She blinks, once twice, before smiling coyly. "I didn't think that was what I was here for," and she runs a hand up his thigh, bending over, just so, such that her breasts hover just in front of his eyes. He laughs, a hearty rich sound, and, laying hand on the flat of her back, pushes her onto his lap. "Right you are." She collapses with no resistance. "Now lets get you out of those tight clothes."

He reaches for her boots, running a hand down her calf, and she suddenly tenses, panicking. He smirks. It didn't take long for that bravado to fall. He means to comment, to tease the little thing, when all the sudden he is pushed down. Before he can respond she is reaching back, dipping her fingers into her leather boot, pulling out a knife and pressing it flush against his throat.

"Sorry Mr., not today." But she underestimates him. With one hard shove, she tumbles to the ground, still clutching the knife, looking determined.

"I'm sorry it turned out this way, Sweetheart. I hate to kill such a pretty thing." In the time he takes to smirk down at her, she is on her feet, lunging toward him. He twists away, throwing out his arm and catching her cheek with his flailing fists. She feints back, dropping the knife and cradling the wound with one hand, glaring at him through her good eye. He comes again, kicking the weapon away and lashing out. She jumps back, crashing into a night stand, turning it over, shattering a vase and scattering the flowers it had held. He storms toward her, wrapping his fingers around her throat and beaming with victory. That is until she cuts a rather deep slash in his stomach with a jagged shard of glass. He gasps, stepping back, arm wrapped tightly around his middle as he fights down the pain. She leaps across the room, grabbing the knife and clutching it tightly in her fist. Running towards him and dodging his weak attempt at defense, she jams the blade deep between his ribs. She pulls it out with a sickening squelch, jerking back away from his grasping hand, which claws at her throat as he falls to the ground, producing a muffled hiss. He collapses, gasping for breath, blood bubbling at his lips, and, in just a few minutes, he is dead, laying motionless at her feet. She wipes the blood from her blade on his expensive silk sheets, and with a single calming breath, exits the room.

Last:

Her fingers leave tiny, bloody fingerprints of the door knob, which she quickly wipes away. With one more pull they are outside, the cool night air raising goosebumps on her arms. She glances back to see that he is following, then begins to flee, racing into the dark.

The go for about an hour before he deems it safe to stop, and they set up camp, keeping the fire low, and bags packed, just in case a quick escape is necessary. They lay out their mats and sleep. Except she cannot. Instead she pictures what could have happened, all the things that could have gone wrong. The other girls' horror story haunt her. After ages of sleepless tossing and turning she sits up, rubbing her eyes in frustration. He is staring at her, worry hinted in the shadows of his face.

"I'm fine," she repeats. "Nothing happened really," he glances at her questioningly, "It is just all the things that could have. All the things that probably will happen if I keep this up."

He rises to his knees, and crawls towards her, putting his arm around her in a gesture completely foreign to him. "You are strong," he says, no doubt in his tone, "I will not lie and say bad things will never happen, but you shan't be broken by something like this." He glances down at her, "And should you need it, I will be here, we are partners. We stand together."


	8. Worries

They are ready. For war. (Or as ready for war as one can be.)

He glances down at her as she does a last inventory of her tools, brow furrowed, jaw clenched. Determined.

"Are you nervous?" he asks, genuinely curious. He is. (Just a bit.) Nervous about dying, about losing his uncle, his cousin, his team. (Her.)

"No... not really," she replies, not looking up. And by all means it seems to be true. She does not shake, cry, whimper, or bemoan their fate, simply readies her supplies with the perfect efficiency particular to her. "I mean I'm not excited about it or anything and I guess I'm kind of afraid of death, but..." she glances up at him, smiling, "What good does worrying do, right? It'll just distract me from my job, and that's that most dangerous thing out there." She looks into his eyes, smile faltering for just a moment. "Really Neji, everything will be fine. We'll make it out of this, we're tough." Standing, confident, radiant, she steps towards him. There is warmth, in her smile, her eyes. It does not melt his heart (that would be much too sentimental) but it is comforting. Familiar.

"I will... miss you."

And suddenly there is a hand on his shoulder, tanned skin brushing past his nose, lips (_so-soft_) touching his cheek, feather-light. His heart is still slamming against his chest when she pulls back, grinning, and turns away, bounding across the field and bestowing the same honor on Lee and _Gai_, for god's sake. And he only feels a little jealous, that is until she glances over her shoulder and winks, mouthing (with those damn, entrancing lips) '_Me too._'


End file.
